


You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how.

by Mothfluff



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Multi, Vignette, kiss meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-18 16:37:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21630664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mothfluff/pseuds/Mothfluff
Summary: "There's no need to plead or yearn, nothing to demand that he isn't already given. Because he has everything, everything he's always wanted, and nothing will take it from him ever again."A collection of kisses, short vignettes from a happy life after Armageddon't.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 112





	You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how.

Kiss on the hands

Aziraphale holds his hands, a small touch, and yet he feels held so completely, it almost brings him to tears. Aziraphale's warmth, his weight on the mattress, his scent all around, the look in his eyes as he brings their hands up to his face is everything Crowley can feel, is everything Crowley wants at the moment. It might all end in the morning, the world saved, but their own crashing down around them. Let's stay here instead, let's focus on this, this miniscule moment in time, this final step after six thousand years. This last leap of faith against faith.

When did their legs get as intertwined as their fingers? He doesn't know. He's not known touch like this since... he's never known touch like this. Careful. Caring. Compassionate. Comforting. He's never realised how much he yearned for it through the years, and now that he has it, he trembles in fear of losing it so soon. One of them could be gone tomorrow. Both of them could be. He doesn't know which one would be worse. Six thousand years, a hundred fights, a million excuses, and all they've earned from it is this one night.

Aziraphale raises their hands, closes his eyes, places a small, soft kiss on the back of Crowley's hand, rests there, breathes in his scent.

“It'll be alright.” Crowley whispers, but they're not his words, they've travelled from lips to skin all the way up to his mind. They brought a soothing wave of warmth across him, and he drifts off to sleep, Aziraphale's lips still on his hand, their legs still bound together. It'll be alright.

Kiss on the nose

Crowley's scales shift across Aziraphale's soft home-cardigan, slither along his shoulders to find a more comfortable spot. It's a rare sight to see the demon transformed, especially nowadays, and an even rarer one to be allowed to touch him at all under those circumstances.

Aziraphale knows what it means. He won't push nor prod the demon to change back, to talk about it. Sometimes you need to worry even in peaceful times, sometimes sorrows take over, and sometimes all you can do is run from it and hide. If that means a giant black snake makes his way around the bookshop for a few days, so be it. If that means a giant black snake finds his way along an angel's leg and settles around his chest while he reads, he'll be glad to be of comfort to him.

They've been reading for an hour like this, Aziraphale voicing the lines in a quiet, hushed tone – he knows Crowley is listening as his head sways along, as his body wraps and re-arranges around him from time to time. He reads the last line, closes the book, and golden eyes rise up to meet him.

“Another?”

He's answered with a short hiss and can't help but smile. The snake head is swaying a bit closer, and all it takes is to lean forward a few inches to place a short peck on its snout.

The forked tongue slips out, slicks across his nose, slips back in.

“Do I smell nice?” He can't help it, he knows it's a step too far as Crowley buries his head against his neck, and would blush from embarrassment if only he could. But he doesn't run off, so Aziraphale feels it's safe to get up to pick another book, one arm around the black coils wrapped around him to steady the snake, as the forked tongue travels across his neck and shoulders, covers him in little kisses in return.

Kiss on the cheek

They're standing in a garden during a birthday party. They're standing on the pavement, watching a parade. They're standing off to the side at a wedding, away from the busy chatter and the dance floor. Crowley has his arm around Aziraphale's shoulder, has his body draped half over him in his usual boneless fashion, has his hands in his hair or on his bowtie or, on more than one occasion, halfway into his shirt.

Aziraphale will never get used to this. To Crowley being this open, this affectionate – the fuck-all-except-us thinking is nothing new, yet has never been so on display. He blushes and tuts and tries not to look at the demon, who has been whispering to him and grinning in that way that makes him blush even more, until he feels the big, almost sloppy kiss pressed to his bright-red cheek.

The kiss isn't for Aziraphale, not completely. It's for Adam's older relative standing a few feet away, who has been muttering to Adam's mum about the 'displays of some guests'. (She will be shut up quickly from it, before Adam's mum can tell her kindly to fuck off, which she will anyway.) It's for the rowdy kids with their flags and banners, seeing the two older gentlemen with their tiny lapel pins in all sort of colours. (For their sense of hope, their sense of understanding, their sense of a not-impossible-anymore future.) It's for everyone to see, for everyone to know, for showing off like they never could before. In a way, it's for Aziraphale and no one else. It's for _them_.

And when Crowley turns his face away again, sometimes he gets a soft peck on his own cheek in return, and Aziraphale will be rewarded with a smile, and he'll think he could get used to this.

Kiss on the nape

Aziraphale has noticed him, of course. He heard the quiet squeak of the door, despite it being locked a few hours ago. He senses the presence even before slow steps patter past the bookshelves. But the book he's hunched over is quite interesting, and they are long past the old routine of Oh Hello! and Do Come In, and What Brings You Here This Time? Crowley comes and goes as he pleases, and sometimes an hour will pass before he even enters the same room as Aziraphale. And it really doesn't matter, because Aziraphale knows he will say hello at some point, and Aziraphale knows he's not a guest anymore that needs to be invited in or welcomed or fussed over. This is just home. The jacket's already on the armrest and the shoes are in a corner and the glasses sit on one of the many side-tables and at some point, a cup of tea might appear next to him or a small tut will remind him of dinner reservations.

Or maybe the demon will sneak up, slowly, as if he hadn't already given himself away with that one squeaky floorboard. He'll lean on the back of the chair, and Aziraphale will be hard-pressed to pretend he's still focussed on reading and suppress an excited giggle when he feels warm breath on his neck, soft lips fluttering on his nape, right where equally soft white curls begin.

“Hello, dearest.” He's long given up on the book as Crowley wraps his arms around his shoulders and rests his nose in said white curls. “Could you order us something from Lucali's for tonight?”

He hears a small noise, a short gust of breath in his hair. Crowley'll be on his infernal cellphone soon enough, remembering all the numbers to Aziraphale's favourite dishes, but not right now. Right now is for smelling cologne in hair and resting hands on a slow-beating heart and a few more lightly tickling kisses.

Kiss on the lips

His kisses were hungry, like a starved man presented with a banquet, a desert traveller meeting an oasis. They were pleading, yearning, demanding more, demanding faster, pulling Aziraphale into a tight embrace and leaving him breathless. After six thousand years, he saw no other way for them to be. They were all-consuming, almost, spurned on by the realisation that they finally could be, that this was alright, it was allowed, it was _wanted_ by the angel, even. Made even more desperate by the underlying fear, the dark rebellious thoughts of losing it all over once again. That surely, it couldn't be this good, he couldn't be this lucky, the other shoe was just waiting to drop and push him away and take it all and leave him with nothing but the memory of these few kisses. He had to make them count. He had to take them as far as Aziraphale allowed.

Aziraphale allowed a lot. But he also knew how to tame a demon, hold him steady, and slow him down bit by bit. A starved man risks overindulgence. A yearning demon might just destroy himself in his endeavour to take all he can, but he's also willing to learn.

Crowley learns that slowing down does not always have to be painful. Quite the opposite, in fact.

His kisses are soft now, fingertips tracing across cheeks and gliding through curls. Savouring the moment rather than chasing it. Sitting in his angel's lap, safe and sound, in a calm embrace, wandering hands and warm bodies. He knows every inch, every little twist, every nip that makes Aziraphale jump. He's had more than enough time to discover them all, and he will have forever to find them again and again. There's no need to plead or yearn, nothing to demand that he isn't already given. Because he has everything, everything he's always wanted, and nothing will take it from him ever again.


End file.
